Farewell Tour: Part 2
by Avery1
Summary: Illya begins his journey. This is Part 2 of 3 parts. Please read them in order. The stories may be read either as Gen or Slash, and will make perfect sense.


**Author's Note** : This is a three-part series. I wrote the first section nearly two years ago, and promised to finish the series as soon as possible. My apologies for the delay but here, finally, is the rest of the tale.

The entire story may be read as either Gen or Slash, and will make perfect sense, whichever filter you use. Love comes in many forms.

 **Farewell Tour**

 **(Part II)**

 **Chapter 1**

 **December, 1971**

"…hereby do bequeath to my partner, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, the deed to my New York penthouse and all its contents," the lawyer read. "May it be a sanctuary for you in times of trouble…"

"This is a waste of time." Illya rose with a huff of impatience, his chair scraping a gash in the floor. "I have work to do."

"Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly ordered smoothly. "Let the man finish."

He resumed his seat with obvious reluctance, arms folded, his face a thundercloud of displeasure. The lawyer droned on. There was a series of generous bequests to Napoleon's favorite charities, but the bulk of his estate, along with his late mother's jewels, went to his sisters, Artemesia and Hippolyta. At last it was over, the documents signed and notarized. The man stuffed the papers into his briefcase and scurried from the room, perhaps sensing the storm about to break. The door whooshed shut.

Illya made no attempt to contain his outrage. "This was premature! We have no proof that Napoleon is dead!"

"No proof?" Waverly's bushy eyebrows rose. "It has been a year, Mr. Kuryakin. More than a year. UNCLE's Search and Rescue teams have looked everywhere, turned over every rock, every stone. If Mr. Solo were alive, don't you think he would have found a way to contact us by now?"

"You're assuming he has the means to do so. What if THRUSH has him? He could be locked away in one of their satrapies."

"Unlikely. We've been listening to their chatter for many months. They're as mystified as we are."

"A hostile government, then."

The eyebrows contracted. "You're grasping at straws."

"Napoleon could be injured—"

"Mr. Kuryakin—"

"—or in a coma. He could have amnesia. I can think of any number of possible scenarios—"

" _Mister_ Kuryakin."

Illya stopped.

"Napoleon Solo is dead. He's not coming back, not this time. God knows, I wish the outcome were different, but it is not."

Illya turned away, unwilling to meet the tired grey eyes.

"You're CEA now—on Mr. Solo's recommendation, I might remind you. One day—perhaps soon, if THRUSH has their way—you will succeed me. When that happens, there will be precious little time to waste on sentimental pipe dreams and events that can't be changed." Waverly's voice softened. "Your partner is gone, son. Don't make this any harder than it already is."

Chastened, and numb with grief, Illya nodded. _But I will never stop looking._

*/*/*/

 **November, 2006**

Illya keyed in the twelve-digit security code, allowed his retina to be scanned to confirm his identity, and stepped across the threshold of the penthouse apartment that had been his home for the past thirty-five years.

The place was sparer than Napoleon had left it, much of the antique furniture consigned to storage years ago. Still, traces of the man remained, lingering faintly in the air like cologne: The delicate ormolu clock on the mantel, a gift to Napoleon from his Aunt Amy. The crystal decanter that had once held his favorite single malt scotch. A bottle of Glenfiddich sat unopened beside it, as it had for more than three decades, awaiting his return. Illya used the edge of his sleeve to brush a layer of dust off the label.

A photo montage of Napoleon at various ages hung on the living room wall: Napoleon at the helm of the _Pursang_ , laughing as he wiped the salt spray from his eyes. With his parents and sisters on a skiing holiday in Gstaad. In cap and gown, hugging a plump and slightly bemused nun outside the chapel at Mayfair International Preparatory, the Catholic boarding school on the outskirts of London that he had attended during his father's ambassadorship to the UK. With Illya, drinking coffee on a balcony in Rome.

A lifetime ago. Yesterday.

Illya stripped down, and took a long, thoroughly indulgent shower, allowing the hot spray to sluice over his tired muscles. When he finished, he slipped on the jeans and turtleneck he had laid out on the bed that morning, and retrieved his weapon and shoulder holster from the dresser drawer. His go-bag, packed days ago in anticipation of his departure, waited beside the front door.

He wandered from room to room, footfalls echoing on the marble tiles as he inspected the apartment one last time. He checked that the safe was emptied of its contents, the thermostat lowered, his medications taken from the cabinet in the bathroom. Everything was in order, as he knew it would be.

 _I'm stalling,_ he realized with a start. _Wasting time._ The phrase "end of an era" rolled through his mind. Scolding himself for his sentimentality, he hefted the go-bag onto his shoulder, and opened the door.

In that instant, his skin prickled; the hair on his arms stood on end; his teeth chattered, and his blood turned to ice.

 _Find me_ , the voice whispered, unbearably faint and far away.

He gasped. "Napoleon?"

 _Find me._

*/*/*/

 **Chapter 2**

The nightmares had begun nearly a year earlier, around the time Illya had begun contemplating his retirement.

 _Not nightmares,_ he corrected. _Feelings._ The vague sensation of a presence, the faint echo of an oh-so-familiar voice lingering tantalizingly in the darkness in the moments after waking. He'd gotten used to the nightly interruptions, though he found them disturbing. They had increased in frequency in recent weeks—Illya could not recall the last time he'd gotten a full night's sleep. _And now this…!_

Never before had he experienced the feeling so intensely, and never while fully awake. _What did it mean?_

His years living with the gypsies had taught him not to discount the ephemeral, and a number of otherwise inexplicable encounters during his time at UNCLE had confirmed the sanity of those beliefs. _Still…_

 _Was it possible? Could it be, after all this time…was Napoleon alive?_

The uncertainty gnawed at him.

On the twelve-hour flight from New York to Hong Kong, Illya studied the case file he had downloaded from the UNCLE Database. The file, a PDF amassing several hundred pages, contained every scrap of available information on Napoleon's disappearance: his itinerary on that fateful trip; lists of the people he met; timelines; search grids; interviews. Page upon page. Words, words. Illya had read the report dozens of times; he knew every word by heart. And yet, there was a clue buried somewhere in the data; he felt sure of it.

 _Find me._

He allowed his memory to drift backward in time hoping, as always, that some heretofore unnoticed detail might provide a clue.

In November of 1970, Illya had been summoned home to Moscow for his annual performance review. "Two weeks of interrogations and bad coffee," was how he'd described the process. "At the end of it, I receive a commendation for 'Meritorious Service to the Motherland. Or perhaps it is for surviving the coffee."

Napoleon, meanwhile, had accepted an invitation from Chaz Prescott, an old Yale classmate of his and a fellow yachtsman. The American twelve-meter yacht _Straight Up!_ was scheduled to compete in the China Coast Regatta, a qualifying race leading up to the America's Cup, and one of the crew was sidelined with a broken ankle. Would Napoleon be available to pinch-hit for the unfortunate man?

"Three days of elite racing on a custom-crafted twelve-meter yacht! Fair winds, rolling seas, leeward and windward courses, HKPN-rated—how can I pass it up?"

Illya and Napoleon bid a hasty goodbye outside the International Terminal at JFK—Napoleon was running late that morning. "Phone me when you get back from Moscow!" he'd called as he jogged toward the departure gate. "And bring back some _good_ vodka this time! That stuff you brought back last year was worse than battery acid."

"But it was top-shelf battery acid. Better hurry, or you will miss your flight."

According to the report, Napoleon had flown first class to Hong Kong on Cathay Pacific Flight 625. His seat mate had been an up-and-coming Japanese film director named Hayao Miyazaki. They spent the flight drinking rice wine and discussing Miyazaki's vision for a new style of animated film. By all accounts, the two men were still deep in conversation when the plane landed twenty-two hours later.

Upon arrival, Napoleon had checked into a luxury suite at the Hong Kong Hilton. He had a massage and sauna at the hotel's Golden Lotus Spa, and afterward had dinner and drinks with the crew of _Straight Up!_ in the Dragon Bar. According to the waiter who served them, the group spent several hours reviewing race strategy, and Napoleon and Prescott made tentative plans to climb some of the area's uninhabited archipelagos after the competition.

The race course for the three-day event was a grueling one. It threaded its way in and around the group of volcanic islands known locally as Jiu Ge Yin Jiao—"The Ninepins"—then turned back via the leeward side of Steep Island, finishing near the craggy outcropping of Tung Lung Chau. Inclement weather and choppy seas made the event unusually difficult that year. A wind advisory was posted on the final day of the regatta, with gusts topping thirty knots. _Straight Up!_ lost its spinnaker to one such gust in the final tack, and the Australian entry, _Southern Cross,_ was declared the winner.

Napoleon spent the evening with his crew mates, drowning their defeat in copious amounts of scotch in the hotel bar. At some point, he had excused himself, saying he was going to his room to pack. He was never seen again.

Cathay Pacific Flight 534 left Hong Kong International Airport for New York at the end of the week, but although Napoleon Solo had purchased a first-class ticket for the flight, he was not on it.

Subsequently, UNCLE Communications received a garbled message, unintelligible due to static, which might—or might not—have been from Napoleon. All efforts to decipher the message were unsuccessful, nor were they able to trace the origin of the transmission due to technical issues with UNCLE's communications satellite.

Illya slipped on his earbuds and listened to the message for the thousandth time:

 _…_ _..hel.…(slapping sounds, crackle)…imm…fifty…rgen…(ascending roar)….lati…..hurry…(helicopter rotors?)…..can't…(explosion)_

The jet dipped and shuddered, the landing gear deploying in preparation for arrival. A pretty flight attendant leaned over, gently reminding Illya to turn off his laptop. He sighed, and closed the file. As the jumbo jet descended, he watched the sun rise, red as blood, over the city of Hong Kong.

*/*/*/

 **Chapter 3**

His first stop after checking in at his hotel was the Ports Division of the Hong Kong Police. As expected, they were not much interested in reopening a decades-old investigation.

"You couldn't have come at a worse time," Stephen Lo Wong, the newly appointed Commissioner of Police declared without enthusiasm. "As you may have heard, my predecessor currently is the subject of a criminal investigation. The whole department's in upheaval."

"Allegations of money laundering for the Chinese Mafia—yes, I had heard."

The Commissioner stiffened in displeasure. "The accusations are entirely spurious, I assure you."

"Of course." Illya reminded himself to tread with care. He needed the good will of the local police, corrupt or not, for his investigation to have any hope of success. "I've brought a copy of the case file with me, but I would be grateful for access to any forensic evidence your people may have obtained in the course of their investigation."

"Cooperation between parties is the shining hallmark of the Hong Kong Police." Lo Tong leaned back in his chair, reached for a cigar. It was a _Cohiba King of Denmark_ , Illya noted with interest—expensive enough to fund a small country. He lit it with a monogrammed gold lighter. Acrid smoke filled the room. "Mr. Solo was your friend, I believe?" Lo Tong smiled. "Friendship, the pearl of great price. Worth a man's soul, wouldn't you say?"

Illya's eyes narrowed.

"Under normal circumstances, I would be most happy to assist you,. Unfortunately"—and here the Commissioner sighed dramatically—"these sorts of decisions are not up to me. Your petition must go through proper bureaucratic channels. With a case this old, the paperwork could take weeks, perhaps longer." He sighed again. "Sadly, there is no guarantee that your request would ever be approved."

It was a shakedown, pure and simple. "How much?"

Lo Tong did his best to look offended, but Illya saw the greed burning behind those cool, unreadable eyes. "Surely you are not suggesting—?"

"I make no accusations, Commissioner, but let us speak plainly. How much money will it take to circumvent these 'proper bureaucratic channels?'"

"You Westerners, always so eager to—what is the phrase?—'cut to the chase?'" He turned to stare out the window, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar.

Illya waited.

"Perhaps an exception could be made," the Commissioner replied at last. "in the spirit of interagency cooperation, you understand. Naturally, I would have to consult with my superiors—"

"Naturally."

Lo Tong clapped his hands together, his good humor restored. "Let me work on it. Shall we meet again in a day or two, to go over the details?"

"The sooner, the better. In the meantime, I presume I have your permission to pursue leads on my own?"

"I have no objection to you turning over a stone or two, providing you obey the laws of our jurisdiction." The Commissioner stood, signaling the end of the interview. "Oh, just one more thing."

"Yes?"

"See that you do not turn over the wrong stones."

 _*/*/*/_

 **Chapter 4**

Illya's next stop was the offices of Prescott's Ltd., an auction house on the Kowloon Peninsula. The prestigious address, with its panoramic views of Victoria Harbour, positively reeked of success and old money.

"He's expecting you," the leggy blonde receptionist said. She escorted him down a long corridor, their footsteps hushed on the thick, plum-colored carpet, and used her keycard to open a set of double doors at the end of the hall. "Your three o'clock is here, sir," she announced.

Chaz Prescott lounged behind a lacquered mahogany desk, twirling a fountain pen in his plump fingers. The man had acquired a substantial amount of girth in the intervening years; no longer was he the athletic demigod grinning out from old school photos, but something darker and unsettlingly carnal. His hair was slicked back and generously oiled, his perfectly manicured nails buffed until they shone. On his pinky, he wore a gold ring with a deep blue stone, similar to the one Napoleon had once worn. Every cell of the man oozed self-indulgence, dissolution. Illya was instantly repelled.

"Do sit down, Mr. Kuryakin. Your name is familiar, but I can't quite—" Prescott squinted up at his visitor, as though trying to place him.

Illya took the proffered seat, his eyes prowling the elegantly appointed office, mentally cataloguing the immense wealth on display. Exquisitely carved jade dragons, Ming Dynasty imperial blue and white vases and a Kangxi Period phoenix-head ewer sat in their gleaming glass cases, ready to impress potential customers. Twin bronzes of Kwan Yin and Bodhisattva stood in wall niches beside the desk.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Prescott preened, following Illya's gaze.

"Remarkable. Tang Dynasty?"

"You have a discerning eye. Those particular pieces date from around 650 CE. I acquired them for my private collection several years ago. They once adorned a Buddhist monastery in the Katmandu Valley. Maya Devi—perhaps you've heard of it?"

"The birthplace of Buddha." Illya wondered whether the monks had been consulted regarding the removal of the deities from their monastery.

His gaze fell upon the black-and-white photo of the _Straight Up!_ adorning Prescott's desk. The Hong Kong skyline, shrouded in mist, emerged as a vague shape in the background. _China Coast Regatta, 1970_ read the gilded plaque on the base of the frame.

 _Interesting._ He knew Chaz Prescott had won his share of important races. Why, then, had he chosen this particular photograph for his desk—a photo of a race he had lost?

Prescott leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, what sort of piece can I help you find today? Do you collect a particular Period or Dynasty?"

Illya continued to stare at the photograph. He wondered which one of the blurred figures clambering amid the riggings was Napoleon.

"Or perhaps you're looking to invest? A hedge against inflation, is that it? We have some lovely Qing Dynasty ewers at the moment. Quite rare, and certain to appreciate in value over time."

"I'm not here to buy anything."

Silence ensued while Prescott attempted to process the statement. "I'm afraid I don't understand," the man said, still trying to work it out, "If you're not here to buy anything, why _are_ you here?"

"Earlier, you were wondering whether we had ever met. We have, thirty-five years ago. I interviewed you regarding the disappearance of my partner, Napoleon Solo."

"You're—from UNCLE?"

Illya nodded. He didn't bother to mention the 'retired' part.

"Still looking, eh?" Prescott peered up at his visitor. "I remember you now. You were pretty frantic, as I recall. Guess you two were pretty close." He caught Illya's expression and stifled a snort. "Well, anyway, what good will it do to dredge it up again? The guy was here one moment, gone the next—poof, end of story."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"How should I know? Maybe the guy had bad debts and did a runner. Maybe he committed suicide. Hell, for all I know, the guy was abducted by aliens."

Illya waited.

As the silence lengthened, Prescott's suddenly nervous hands busied themselves, adjusting the angle of the desk lamp, straightening the computer monitor on its stand. A drop of sweat appeared on his brow. "Look, it's not as though we were friends. Our families knew one another from the Country Club, that's all. We ran in the same circles—Newport, the Hamptons, West Palm." He paused, perhaps recalling some long-forgotten event from his youth. "Dimple—that's what we called him—never fit in. Too much starch in those collared shirts, if you know what I mean. A regular Boy Scout. Great sailor, though, or I'd never have had him on my team."

Illya's eyes turned piercingly sharp and cold. Assassin's eyes. "I understand that you and _Napoleon—"_ He emphasized the name. "—were planning to spend a few days hiking in the area after the competition?"

"Never happened. We were supposed to take the ferry over to Lantau Island the following morning. Dimp—uh, Napoleon—wanted to climb Lin Fa Shan, the Dragon's Back. It's a Class 5 climb. Only he never showed up."

"Weren't you concerned when he didn't appear?"

"Not really. I supposed he changed his mind. He was pretty quiet at the Dragon Bar the night before—didn't say two words the entire evening. Anyway, I didn't think much of it when he didn't show. Vanessa was waiting for me at the penthouse, so I went back to bed."

Illya had had enough. He stood so abruptly that the other man reeled back in his chair, chubby hands raised as though fearing attack.

"You would do well to remember," Illya said with deadly quiet, "that though the man with the most toys may win, it is the honorable man who is truly alive, and is loved."

He strode from the room, leaving Chaz Prescott staring after him, pale and shaken.

 ***/*/*/**

 **Chapter 5**

Illya returned to his hotel room, full of unanswered questions. He ordered dinner and a bottle of vodka from Room Service, but when it arrived, he found that he wasn't hungry. He stretched out on the bed, arms pillowed behind his head, and considered what he had learned.

Prescott's account of events matched the one he had given years earlier, and yet, Illya sensed that there were gaps in the story the man had told. Why was there a photo of _Straight Up!_ On Prescott's desk and—more puzzling—why would Napoleon wish to associate with such an unpleasant and venal man?

The Hong Kong Police would be of little help, mired as they were in the latest corruption scandal. In any case, too many years had passed since Napoleon's disappearance, and their interest in solving the case was virtually nil. Still, if he were granted access to the forensic evidence, there might be something, some small detail the investigators had overlooked…

Everyone agreed on the basic facts of the case: Napoleon had not left the city via conventional means—his name was absent from airline passenger lists and cruise ship manifests. He had not hired a private plane, rental car or boat, at least not under his own name. He had not accessed his bank account or credit card, nor had he spoken to anyone after leaving the restaurant on that final evening. He had checked out of the hotel just after midnight, using the room television's newly installed remote checkout feature. No one at the front desk saw him leave, but he was briefly visible on security cameras exiting the hotel. There was no evidence of foul play, and nothing had been left behind to indicate where he might have gone. No body was ever found.

Illya sighed. The trail wasn't just cold—it was non-existent.

He picked at his Greek salad, watching the lights of the city come on outside the hotel window. He left the bottle of vodka untouched. _What would Napoleon have thought of that?_ he wondered idly, and then chastised himself for thinking in the past tense.

Rumors had swirled in the wake of Napoleon's disappearance, each one more outrageous than the last. He was away on a top-secret assignment, some said. He'd been badly injured and was recuperating at one of UNCLE's long-term care facilities insisted others. Mandy Stevenson in Translations—always the romantic—wondered whether he'd secretly married, and was on honeymoon with his new bride in the Azores. One or two of the agents even suggested that he'd defected to THRUSH, a malicious rumor swiftly quelled by Alexander Waverly.

Illya, for his part, had found the timing of Napoleon's disappearance highly suspicious. Was Moscow displeased with their partnership? Did the KGB use the excuse of his annual performance review to shunt him out of the way, leaving their agents free to deal with Napoleon? His superiors in the Kremlin assured him that such was not the case but, as with all matters of spycraft, it was hard to trust the denial.

 _Find me._

He gave up on the salad, tossed it into the trash. He changed into pajamas, retrieved his medications from the toiletry case in the bathroom, and swallowed the handful of pills with a glass of water. The taste was bitter.

He climbed into bed, wrapped the covers around him, and closed his eyes. Sleep was a long time coming.

 ***/*/*/**

 **Chapter 6**

The following morning, Illya took a taxi to the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology where Philip Cheung, a waiter from the Dragon Bar, now worked. Thirty-five years ago, the young man had been a server at the restaurant, struggling to earn money for college tuition. Now he was Dean of the Mathematics Department at the University.

The wiry professor seemed not to have aged much from his earlier photos, although his hair was beginning to grey at the temples, and the joints of his fingers revealed what Illya suspected was a touch of arthritis. He rose, extending his hand. "Dr. Kuryakin! It's an honor to meet you!"

"The honor is mine, sir. I read with interest your paper on Riemannian manifolds last year."

"And I, yours on wave particle duality."

Illya waved the compliment away. "Ages ago."

"Are you still publishing?"

"Alas, no. My responsibilities at UNCLE have kept me too busy for much else."

"A pity. Your concept was intriguing. I would have liked to see where you took it." The professor gestured toward a pair of folding chairs. "Now then, I understand you're searching for information on the disappearance of your friend. I'm not certain how I can help—it was so long ago, and I was only a waiter at the time."

"Putting yourself through university. Yes, I remember."

"Then you know I've already told the investigators everything I could recall."

"Perhaps not everything."

The professor frowned. "Are you implying—?"

Illya held up his hands, quelling the outburst. "No, no, of course not. I merely meant that memories are elastic, elusive constructs, constantly evolving. _We_ decide what is important about an event, and remember it. As a result, other, less 'important' details may go unnoticed, forgotten unless we know to look for them."

Cheung nodded to himself. "Yes, yes, I see. Alright, then. Ask your questions."

Illya opened his tablet and prepared to take notes. "Walk me through the evening. Tell me what you remember."

"Let's see—" The professor gathered his thoughts. "The Dragon Bar was full that night. Mostly people in town for the race. I remember that we scheduled an extra seating for dinner to accommodate the unusual numbers, and we still turned people away."

Illya nodded encouragingly. "Go on."

"Mr. Solo came in with the rest of _Straight Up!'_ s crew—around 8:30, I think. They ordered drinks, but not food. After a few rounds, it got pretty loud. The classic scenario of spoiled rich kids mouthing off."

"Mouthing off?"

"Grumbling about the race officiating. They claimed the referees were biased, that they would have won if it hadn't been for the unfair time penalty on the opening leg. And then there were the endless complaints about bad service, watered-down drinks, rude comments toward the waitresses. After awhile, it got so loud that diners at the other tables began complaining. A few people got up and left."

"What was Napoleon doing during all this?"

"Mr. Solo was angry. He tried to make them stop. 'Dial it down,' he said. I remember, because the phrase sounded funny to my ears."

"Did they stop?"

The professor shook his head. "They just laughed. The captain—Chaz somebody—said they were paying plenty for the privilege, and Mr. Solo should 'loosen up and have another drink.'"

"What did Napoleon do then?"

"He got up and left the table."

"He left the restaurant?"

The professor stared at a spot on the wall, picturing the room, and the night. "No," he said at last. "He went over to the bar and started watching television."

"Television?" _That wasn't in the report!_ "Are you certain?"

He thought some more. "I'm sure of it," he said at last. "The evening news was on, or maybe it was the weather. Sorry, but I wasn't paying all that much attention to the program. Whatever he was watching must have been pretty interesting, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he seemed totally engrossed—never took his eyes off the screen. A few minutes later, he got up and left."

Illya's heart began to race. He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. "What time was that?"

"Around ten-thirty, I'd guess."

"You never mentioned it to the investigators."

"Didn't I?" The professor shrugged. "I guess they didn't ask me. Oh, and there was one other thing."

"Yes?"

"On his way out of the restaurant, Mr. Solo made sure to thank every one of the waiters and busboys. And he left a thousand American dollars in an envelope, to be split among the staff. A generous man, your friend. He had such kind eyes."

*/*/*/

 **Chapter 7**

The University's arboretum was directly adjacent to the Mathematics building. Illya found a secluded bench away from the main path, overlooking a zen garden of boulders and white pebbles, and pulled out his cell phone. He keyed in a long line of code, and listened to the ringtone, Once. Twice.

"Delfloria's Dry Cleaning," announced a voice on the other end of the line. "How may I direct your call?"

"Private communication India November Kilo dash Delta Alpha November Charlie Echo Romeo dash Oscar."

"Connecting," the digital voice responded. "One moment, please."

He stared down at the carefully raked sea of pebbles and took a calming breath.

"Illya? Is it really you?" Olivia Dancer's warm contralto sang across the miles, filling him with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.

"My apologies for the late hour, Olivia. I realize it's one o'clock in the morning where you are—"

"No worries. With everything going on in the world these days, who has time to sleep?" She sighed. "Gosh, it's wonderful to hear your voice! How are you? Enjoying retirement, I trust?"

"I am managing to keep busy."

"Beekeeping?"

He smiled at the jibe. "Actually, I've been doing a bit of traveling." Illya lowered his voice. "Olivia, I need a favor."

Silence on the line.

"I wouldn't ask, but—"

"You've gone to look for him." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

A sigh. "Oh, Illya."

"I've found something. A clue. I think it could be important." He waited on tenterhooks while she processed the information.

"Tell me what you need," Olivia Dancer said at last.

 _So far, so good._ Illya exhaled in relief. "That final night in the Dragon Bar, Napoleon left his table. Left his crew mates. He went to the bar to watch television."

"Are you sure? Because I'm looking at the incident report from that night, and there's no mention anywhere of Napoleon moving to the bar."

"Professor Cheung was there, and remembers it clearly."

"Cheung? Why does that name—? Oh, wait. Wasn't there a waiter by that name working at the Dragon Bar?"

"Philip Cheung. He's head of the Mathematics Department at Hong Kong University now."

"Impressive." Illya pictured her nibbling her lower lip, thinking it over. "Okay then, let's assume for a moment that the good professor's memory is accurate. I suppose Napoleon could have met someone there. Struck up a conversation—"

"I need to know what he was watching."

Silence crackled along the line. "Seriously? You want to know what _television program_ he was watching?" Olivia's voice conveyed her disbelief.

"Professor Cheung said he couldn't take his eyes off the screen. I need to know what he saw there." He hesitated. "Olivia, it's important."

Another sigh. "The things I do for you. Okay, give me a sec to log on." Her voice was all business now. Illya's admiration for her ticked up another notch. He could hear the clacking of the keys as she typed. "Looks like—yes. There were only two stations on the air in Hong Kong back in 1970. Thank God for small favors. Even so, it'll take a little digging to track down the broadcast schedules. Is there a time frame?"

"Between 10:00 and 11:00 PM should do it. I'd like to view the actual shows if they're available."

"Give me an hour. I'll send the uplinks to your phone, shall I?"

"Yes. And Olivia?"

"Sir?"

"Thank you."

*/*/*/

By the time Illya reached his hotel, Olivia had forwarded the links. "Nothing here that I can see," was the accompanying message. "Then again, you knew Napoleon better than anybody. If there's something there, you'll find it. Best, Olivia."

He opened the first link and settled back to watch.

The variety show, on a now-defunct channel known as _Rediffusion_ , had been filmed before a live audience. It featured, among other things, a troupe of badly rehearsed Morris dancers, a ventriloquist and his wooden dummy arguing in Mandarin Chinese, and a pair of twins singing a duet while performing gymnastics on bicycles. Illya studied the faces, but saw no one he recognized, and nothing that would have made Napoleon sit up and take notice.

He opened the second link.

TVB television's Nightly News program filled the screen. Illya watched a report about the Vietnam War, followed by a segment on corruption within the Hong Kong Police—S _ome things never change,_ Illya thought to himself—and one on the latest gang war between the _Sun Yee On_ and their rivals, the _Wo Shing Wo_.

 _Interesting, but not compelling_. Illya eyed the bottle of vodka on the nightstand with longing.

The weather report was next—'sunny and mild through Friday, with a possibility of showers over the weekend'—followed by a feel-good story about a group of nuns from London, England. The Little Sisters of Charity had spent the past year in the tiny village of Basurjani, East Pakistan, building a school and medical clinic to serve the poor. "Jesus loved the little children," declared Sister Mary Luke McDonald, the spokesperson for the Order. "How can we do less?" The camera panned back to show a clinic filled with children, most suffering from cholera or malaria. Nuns bustled about, changing dressings and taking temperatures. Sister Mary Luke, rocking a sleeping baby in her plump arms, spoke softly into the camera. "Jesus said, 'Whoever welcomes a child in my name, welcomes me.' We try to remember that wisdom every day."

Illya stared at the image on the screen; ran it back; played it again.

 _Bozhe moy,_ he whispered.

It was her, the nun in the photograph on Napoleon's wall. Older, yes, surely, but unmistakable. _This_ was what Napoleon had seen that night. _This_ was what had prompted him to leave Hong Kong so suddenly.

In a flash, everything became clear.

*/*/*/

 **Continue to Part III** :


End file.
